


A Pulsing Beat In The Dead Of Night

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Power Imbalance, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claquesous/Montparnasse vampire AU. Blood drinking and sex and all sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pulsing Beat In The Dead Of Night

Montparnasse woke in the dead of night to weight atop his thighs,  _heavy_ _,_ and he let out a choked noise as he stared up at the thing to whom this weight belonged to.

He was lit by slivers of moonlight that made their way in through the not-completely-closed curtains, illuminating dark skin. The line shone and reflected off the skin, highlighting his cheekbones, forehead, the stubble on his jaw, and red lips that were open - most of all, the silvery light affected sharp, gleaming teeth, with canines that were sharp and elongated.

Montparnasse’s reaction was instinctive; he moved to strike the man atop him with his fists, but his hands were caught with utter and complete ease, the movement inhumanly fast and grasping him so tightly he could not even think of struggling. 

“ _Please_.” Montparnasse whimpered, and he didn’t know exactly what he was begging for, if he was begging for his life or not. Because this creature was  _attractive_ , and Montparnasse couldn’t even classify why - there was a sweet scent, a cloying  _musk_  that filled his nostrils and utterly intoxicated him, made his heart beat faster and his cheeks flush, made his cock stir beneath the sheets, beneath this  _monster_. He was begging his life, for certain, but perhaps he was begging for something more, for a death, of sorts. A little one.

The monster tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, staring upon Montparnasse’s face with some bestial fascination, and Montparnasse took in a gasping breath for air as the vampire - oh  _God_ , he was a fucking  _vampire_  - leaned. 

Montparnasse didn’t know why he did it. The action was instinctive, automatic, reflexive, such a bodily response without thought that even if there had been time to stop it he wasn’t sure he would have. Montparnasse bared his neck, and showed off marble skin on a slender curve for the beast atop him to take at his leisure.

—-

Montparnasse woke the next morning with plain, obvious memories, tinged at their edges with that dreamy quality one could always expect, and without an ending. He hated it when he forgot an ending to a dream - what could be worse?

Especially when the beginning to this one was so stubborn in taking his mind over. All he could think of was that  _face_ _,_  some phantom haunting his every sense and thought, gleaming teeth, dark skin, lips that were so  _red_ …

The very idea enchanted him, enough that when Prouvaire, one of the ridiculous romantics in his English class, waxed poetic about the wonders of vampirism in literature, of creatures of lust and violence, he listened. It was a rather interesting concept, after all, and one that he took to readily.

A charming fascination. And if that night, Montparnasse’s slender hand went to his cock, and he drew upon that dreamy remembrance of  _terror_  mixed with arousal, thrust his hips up and into the curl of his hand as he let out strangled mewls, thought about his neck being  _torn_  into, blood on his shoulders and dripping as a larger hand replaced his own, well. Who was to know what Montparnasse wanked over, and why ever should it matter to them?

He put it from his mind. The creature in his dreams created some interesting masturbatory fodder, certainly, but Montparnasse was a straight-forward creature, and spared no worry for what such a dream meant, or attempted to interpret it. 

And then, one night, he saw the glimpse of a black jacket disappearing around a corner, silken fabric he recognized ( _it was only a dream)_ , and he made excuses to Babet and Brujon (they’d been loitering and drinking in the street, for the sake of winding up the local copper, René Javert) before running after him.

Montparnasse fancied himself graceful when he ran, and he was quite correct: he had beautiful legs, long and elegant, and although he could never find trousers that showed them off for cheap enough, they looked charming in whatever, particularly when he sped his pace.

He saw flickers of the man he was following, flickers of white teeth ( _only a dream_ ) and glimpses of a shining mask put across that beautiful face. Montparnasse only realized where he was when he lost sight of the fleeing man, glancing about the familiar stones.

The cemetery. It was a traditional thing, with two mausoleums and a few tombstones that were more like monuments that headstones, and Montparnasse had spent virtually two years drawing in this very place when he’d done his Art GCSE, fascinated by the various sepulchral inspirations.

He sighed, shaking his head and running a hand over his face. It was only a dream, and he had exerted himself for nothing: how ridiculous. He turned on his heel, and the wind was knocked out of him, sudden pain blooming across his shoulders as he was thrown back and pinned against the wall of one of the mausoleums.

He stared, wide-eyed, at the masked figure above him, struggling until a forearm was laid out on his throat, pinning him effectively and stopping him from taking in breaths as full as he would like. The man removed the mask, sliding it from his face with ease, and looked down at Montparnasse (and Montparnasse was  _tall_ , nearing six foot now and managing not to be too lanky about it, how tall was this fucker?) with the same inquisitive look Montparnasse had wanked over God knows how many times now.

"It wasn’t a dream." was all Montparnasse choked, and the thing above him just said, "Aren’t you pretty?"

Montparnasse preened despite himself, lips quirking into a slight smile as the other dropped his neck, leaving Montparnasse to heave in a gasp just after. The man’s voice was a low rasp for lack of use, coming throaty and deep, and the edge to it made Montparnasse shiver. He had not imagined a voice like that, and somehow, this was better.

"My name is Claquesous." The man said, and then he grinned, revealing white teeth that gleamed even more now under full-on moonlight, and they were so  _sharp_.

"Montparnasse. Miljan Montparnasse."

"Oh, I know." Claquesous shifted forwards, hands either side of the boy’s head as he leaned in. "Miljan Montparnasse. You’re seventeen, studying English, and History, and Classics, and French. Your French accent is quite impressive for a non-native, you’re failing Classics, but in English and History you do well enough. You pick-pocket for fun, and you have less money than you’d like, and you…" Montparnasse squeaked out a noise as Claquesous cupped his crotch through his skinny jeans. "Have been touching yourself for the past few weeks, thinking of  _me_. It’s very sweet.”

He couldn’t place the demon’s accent, but it had a foreign edge to it, a slight purr. And it was  _sexy_ , God damn it. 

"How do you- how-" Montparnasse groaned as Claquesous squeezed him, and he was starting to get hard, and he bucked his hips up and into the touch.  _  
_

"Do you know what I am, Montparnasse? I’m a _vampire_.” Montparnasse cried out as Claquesous kept squeezing and stroking him through his jeans, even as he leaned in. His breath was hot on Montparnasse’s skin, and the boy couldn’t help but let out a squeak.

"Are you- oh God, are you-" And then Claquesous was biting down, and it  _hurt_ , sharp pain as teeth ripped into marble-coloured skin, but then the pain was gone to be replaced by sheer euphoria, intoxicating Montparnasse and making him whimper uselessly. He felt light-headed and weak at the knees, and he was dimly aware that he’d come in his pants, but that thought - and the sensation of orgasm - were detached. All he could focus on was the wet heat at his throat, the pound and thud of blood in his ears that seemed to get quieter and quieter.

Montparnasse blacked out, and woke in his own bed. Another dream.

He groaned, sitting up, and the movement made his neck  _ache_. Montparnasse wrenched his head to the side, staring across the room, and saw his reflection in the mirror. His reflection, a pretty Montparnasse, with red marks at his neck from being beaten the night before.

Dear God.

—-

Claquesous was in his bed that night when Montparnasse came home, sprawled on black sheets as if he owned the place. As if he owned Montparnasse.

The thought perhaps filled him with more excitement than it should have.

"You bit me." He whispered.

"Yes." Claquesous said.

"You didn’t kill me."

"No." Claquesous agreed. "I thought I might keep you."

"Keep me?" Montparnasse whispered, and Claquesous grinned at him. The mask, the black mask, was laid on his knee, and Montparnasse now noticed another one, a smaller one, of scarlet painted would was laid atop it. 

"Yes. I’ve drank from you, and all it takes is one little bite, Montparnasse, just a little bite from here." Claquesous tapped his own neck. "Think about it. Eternal youth, heightened sensation of all the best pleasures,  _forever_.” Montparnasse’s mouth was dry, and he stumbled forwards. This was too good to be true.

"Will I have to kill people?"

"Would you care if you did?" No. No, Montparnasse wouldn’t care at all, not if they weren’t of the select group of people he liked (a small number). He shook his head, and Claquesous beamed. 

"If I say no?"

"I’ll kill you." Yes, of course he would. It didn’t matter anyway: Montparnasse had his answer.

"I want it."

"Come." Montparnasse did, stumbled forwards and Claquesous coaxed him into his lap, ignoring the masks as they dropped on the ground, ignoring the way the wood frame of the bed creaked in protest. Montparnasse straddled him, and now he felt how big the guy actually was, muscled and heavyset,  _massive_. Claquesous put his hand to his own neck, and cut the skin with his own nail, the flesh parting as easily and as smoothly as it would have under a knife. “Lips here, Montparnasse.”

And as he leaned, Montparnasse was nervous, heart pounding in his chest, breath quickened, mouth dry. The coppery scent of blood had a new edge to it, a finer, sweeter edge Montparnasse couldn’t have explained if he’d wanted to, but he was worried.

As soon as his lips touched that first bead of blood, all his anxieties were forgotten. Montparnasse  _whimpered_ , the taste of it hot and burning his tongue and his lips, and yet it was good, sending a feverish rush through Montparnasse’s entire body.

He bit down, desperate, sucking greedily at the flesh and giving needy little whimpers, and he was grinding himself down, cock suddenly as hard as anything and his fingers were shaking, his skin was on fire with sensation and a need to be  _touched_. There was no detachment as before, now, suddenly, everything seemed ninety times more  _intense,_  and Montparnasse nearly sobbed against the older man’s neck as he drank.

He didn’t want to stop, but eventually he had to after God knows how long: Claquesous pushed him back, and Montparnasse became aware of the fact that his teeth felt different, longer, stranger, that his cock was still hard and demanding attention in his jeans, that he felt more powerful than he ever had in his life. “Look.” Claquesous murmured, and Montparnasse did, turned his head to the side and stared in the mirror as he had that morning.

There was a depression on the bed from their weight, but no man could be the seen in the mirror. “I’m going to fuck you, Montparnasse.” Claquesous murmured, and there was a knife on the fabric of his jeans, tearing through the black denim with a smooth ease. “I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to keep you, and you’re  _mine_  now.”

"Yours." Montparnasse mumbled, and then he arched, catching Claquesous in a greedy, desperate kiss, kissing Claquesous as if he was dying and Claquesous was the antidote. But then, he was the opposite of that, wasn’t he? Claquesous had just killed him as surely as anything.

Later, Montparnasse lay on the bed in a languid fashion, naked and gleaming with sweat, thighs aching, neck twinging from the lingering bites, cock soft and asshole still open and  _wet_  from Claquesous.”You want me to wear that mask?”

"The privilege of looking upon that pretty face is mine now." Montparnasse hummed. He liked that thought.

"Why me?"

"I like pretty things."

"Am I a pretty thing?"

"Prettier than anything I’ve seen in all my years."

"How long’s that?"

"Millennia." Montparnasse preened, a lazy grin appearing on his beautiful cherry lips.

"Ah. Thank you." Claquesous was regarding him possessively, and Montparnasse bathed in that attention, enjoying the gaze upon his skin. "Will we go?"

"Soon. Later. Sleep." Claquesous murmured. Montparnasse had never been one to disobey an order, not one given from such a charming creature as this. And creature, why, wasn’t that right. Orders from a  _beast_ , and now Montparnasse was one too!

How romantic, he thought, grinning to himself as he closed his eyes. How utterly romantic.

Montparnasse slept, and Claquesous watched him. 

That became a habit of centuries.


End file.
